Transpired

She was water, she was steam 

boiled by expectations to be the 

right kind of woman.

Her breath caught in the wind 

voice taken up 

with leaves

Her possibilities an 

oxbow, perennially beguiled.

Nomadic feet nipped at 

the stream 

chomped at 

the bit

bleeding from stillness.

Naked before the banks of

her prison, she cursed

infinite waters

losing her words when 

the Hickory shook

beside her.

Earth trembled beneath battered 

heels, her chin lifted

and Hickory grabbed hold of her. 

You are water, you are steam 
You are your kind of woman



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